


Skip to My Lou

by ForevermoreNevermore



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Awkwardness, Eye Contact, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 06:01:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForevermoreNevermore/pseuds/ForevermoreNevermore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will doesn't like to make eye contact, but it doesn't mean he can't catch emotions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skip to My Lou

**Author's Note:**

> It's official. This show is beautiful and Will Graham is now one of my favorite beings in the world. So I give you... awkward eye contact! Yay! Thanks for reading.

One hundred and seventy people in a classroom, that's three hundred and forty eyes staring as Will takes his podium; breath rattling in an empty cranium with a sun dried brain. Like a bean in a bowl.

Skips faster than a stone over the heads of students, catching emotions in a stack of pictures: interest, boredom, boredom, interestboredomboredom,

Interest.

Boredom...

Boredom.

But he was tied to a pole just shy of entertaining so he understood completely.  If he were a pretty kid studying murder he'd be bored by the sugar glider professor too.

There's sexual arousal on one student, so shocking in its presentation Will trips over a few words, rubs at the blank paper in his hands, and troops on. Obviously daydreaming, the students sees a navy wall, but feels flesh and hears sheets move in tandem with a dance for only two people and Will falls flat on a word, clears his throat, and picks up the string again.

Keeeeeps skipping, stopping at a barrel chested man quite obviously not a college student. Suit, tie, lips quirked in mild amusement and there's suddenly no doubt about who he's psycho-analyzing. Will's the only one in the room to that gaze. 

He never meets the eyes of people he looks at, just vague rushes of faces and expressions to give a good enough anchor to keep him there, against his own grating voice and the ever present debate to just stop talking and stand. 

But he gives in just a bit with the psychiatrist, to show him that there's really nothing to look at there, nothing to see, move the fuck on. The eyebrows, he just looks at the eyebrows and quirks one of his own as he pitches himself into his next topic. Wouldn't even be able to tell he wasn't looking him in the eye. 

The man shifts, straightening his already ram-rod spine and pushing his eyes just into Will's gaze. They're startling in their sudden appearance and they're just so...

Big? No, not really. Not particularly any color, either. Nothing's really special at all, especially from just this distance where it just looks like the man was ready for lunch. 

A lunch split in half over a carving board, hands parting torn ligaments as easily as bread, knead, knead, need the muscles to relax or the whole thing will be gamey. And life's no fun if the game's not. 

Everyone likes a good meat pie. 

The clicker in his hand is thin and black, sleekly discreet and Will's thumb rubs swirls into the plastic before it presses in the button to find the next slide. Only it doesn't. It's already 1:05. He's run over. 

The screen turns to black. 


End file.
